


Kitchen Counters

by greysynonyms



Series: Detroit: Become Human Songfics [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Androids, Begging, Biting, Borderline deviant Connor, Bruising, Dpd, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Future, Like teetering the edge, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Pining, Police officers, Pre-Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Sexual Tension, Vaginal Fingering, accidental feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-01 12:00:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15142619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greysynonyms/pseuds/greysynonyms
Summary: Because Connor needs you to focus on matters at hand, not matters of the heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “My life started the day I got caught under the covers with secondhand lovers”

      The kitchen counter is cold against your collarbones, colder still against the flush of your cheeks. Warm fingers slide against the curve of your hip, dip inside your shirt and trace patterns against your stomach; warm breath caresses the shell of your ear, punctuated by the nip of teeth at your earlobe at broken intervals. You keen, toes curling against the tile floor, hands clenching and unclenching around the air in a desperate attempt to ground yourself against the onslaught of intense sensation.

      You have no idea how you ended up here, bent over at the waist in Hank’s kitchen, naked from the waist down, with three fingers knuckle-deep inside of you, pushing and  _ twisting _ and ripping sounds from your throat you didn’t know you were capable of until tonight. The hand on your stomach slides down across your skin slowly, pressing gently into the bruises left on your hips, just enough for you to feel it, recognize that those hands left marks on you,  _ claimed  _ you, then slips lower suddenly and you cry out when it finds the slick swell of your clit between your legs. 

      “Hank,” you breathe hotly, creating a film of condensation over the countertop. 

      All movement stops and your next breath catches in your throat.  _ Fuck _ , you’ve ruined everything, haven’t you? Your legs are shaking, body desperate for the release that was close, so close you can nearly taste it on the tip of your tongue. You scratch your nails against the kitchen counter, rising to your toes and pushing your ass higher into the air. “Please,” you mutter helplessly, voice hoarse and thick with desire. When the fingers pull away from you completely you nearly sob. You’ll beg, you’ll fucking  _ grovel _ if you have to, if that’s what it takes to get those fingers back inside you--

      You hear knees hit the floor behind you and your eyes shoot wide, but you have no time to look, no time even to ask before a tongue licks a burning path between your folds. That same tongue skillfully finds your clit and drags across it in a way that has you gasping for air, strong hands holding your thighs apart as your entire body begins to quake. You’re close, so close, a babbling, drooling, panting wreck against the counter, when you realize that something is off.

      The slide of the face buried against you is too smooth, the fingers squeezing your legs too soft.

      Memories return to you in lazy waves, memories of a voice through the haze of pleasure as those fingers find you again, push in roughly and twist up in a way that has your back taut with tension. 

_       I believe your attraction is becoming a detriment to this case, detective _ . 

      You open your mouth to speak, suck in a sharp breath instead when teeth sink into the sensitive flesh of your thigh.

_       If we do not solve this problem soon, I fear I will be forced to report you as a liability to Cyberlife, and you will be removed from the case. _

      You want to tell him to stop,  _ need _ to tell him to stop because, fuck, it’s not Hank, it’s not Hank, it’ll never be Hank no matter how bad you want it to be, and now that you know it needs to stop, needs to stop now because--

_       Luckily, I believe I have a solution that will be to your satisfaction _ . 

      “Connor!” you scream as your orgasm is ripped from you by lips and teeth and tongue. You feel more than you hear him hum against you in acknowledgement, and even when your body starts to relax, when pleasure edges on pain from overstimulation, he doesn’t stop. He continues to slide his fingers into you, slicker, easier now, as he returns to his feet and leans over you. You shiver against the slide of his suit against your back, the tickle of his tie over your spine, the rush of his breath against your neck seconds before he bites down hard enough that you’re sure he’ll leave a mark. 

      Then his voice is in your ear, “As lovely as my name sounds on your lips, detective, I believe that you crying it in this situation will not ease the tension between you and the lieutenant at all. In fact, I calculate an 87% chance that it will increase--”

      You stutter out a shaky curse, cutting off his words with a sentence you’ve heard in the very voice of the lieutenant you’ve been lusting after for so long so many times: “Connor, shut the fuck up.” Your voice is pitched and breathless and absolutely fucking wrecked, but it seems to get the point across because then there’s an incredibly hot tongue (why is his mouth so  _ hot? _ What purpose does that serve for an android?) licking a scorching path up the column of your neck. 

      But then you remember--you’re not supposed to be thinking about him as an android, or even him as  _ Connor _ ; you’re supposed to be thinking about Hank, and how easy that would be if it just  _ was  _ the rugged, calloused, hard-edged police lieutenant and not the adorable, polite, doe-eyed android currently pushing you towards a second orgasm faster than your body should allow. You feel the weight of his chest against your back as he leans closer, his hand pinned between your ass and his own hips.

      “Listen,” he says directly into your ear, and if you weren’t teetering on the edge of something glorious you may have thought to question why he also sounds a little breathless. 

      “I--I can’t--Connor, oh fuck, I can’t--” The next sound that leaves your throat is a high-pitched whine when his hand stops moving entirely. 

      “You can,” he says, and punctuates his words by reaching around to cover your mouth with a hand smeared with evidence of your release. “You will.” He presses his fingers into your mouth and you moan brokenly around them when they push against your tongue. His other hand finds its way back between your legs and he pushes his fingers into you slowly, purposefully, so that you can hear the squelch of his skin pushing into your wetness. “Do you hear it?” he asks conversationally, and then pushes his fingers deeper with a sudden movement that has you seeing stars behind your eyelids. 

      Your hips buck, searching for the friction you’ve been deprived; your heart does a funny little jump in your chest when Connor’s sharp hip-bones immediately press hard into your ass and pin your wiggling hips to the counter. 

      “Would it be easier for you if I simulated Lieutenant Anderson’s voice, detective?” Connor asks casually, even as his fingers press deeper into your mouth, catching your tongue between skilled digits and toying with it as if it were his coin. 

      You want to say yes, yes,  _ yes _ \--because it would make it easier, to imagine Hank instead of the smattering of freckles that dust Connor’s nose so delicately--but you can’t think, can’t  _ breathe _ around the fingers nearing your throat, so instead you stupidly, stupidly shake your head and use all of your remaining strength to push your ass tighter to his unyielding body. 

      His fingers slip from between your lips and then you’re suddenly being forced to roll onto your back, his hands lifting your thighs to fit snugly around his waist, his hips slotting against yours in a way that is downright sinful. He stares at you with those big brown eyes, and you notice his LED spinning yellow at his temple, flashing briefly red when you tighten your legs around him and  _ grind _ your body against his in an attempt to alleviate the pressure that’s close to boiling over inside of you.

      “Connor,” you pant his name, and you can swear you feel some sort of stir in his pants where you’re pressed so close to him--but that can’t be, right? You must be imagining things, lust-addled brain fueling your imagination with all sorts of filthy, impossible ideas; even though you know that, somewhere deep in the back of your mind, you can’t help but think how fucking good the android looks like this--perfect hair disheveled, artificial sweat glistening near the collar of his shirt, clothes skewed and wrinkled and perfectly imperfect. Your back arches right off the countertop, a guttural noise ripping from your throat when his hips press back against yours in a tentative gesture. 

      “Detective.”

      You slide your tongue over your teeth, focus on the pretty dance of his LED rather than on his intense gaze. “Please.” It tumbles from your mouth unwarranted, your hands raising to clutch desperately at the sleeves of his jacket. “Connor,  _ please _ .” 

      Hands tighten to the point of pain on your thighs and then he drags you closer to the edge of the counter and thrusts his hips against yours in a way that has you thinking, without a shadow of a doubt, that the RK800 was previously developed to be some kind of sex god (and  _ fuck _ , what you would give to praise him every day if this is what it feels like). He’s unrelenting, shoving his hips into yours, one of his hands leaving your leg so that his fingers can once against find purchase against your clit and rub small circles there until you’re taut as a bowstring. 

      He’s hovering over you, so close you can see each and every imperfection that he was designed with; your eyes travel from his long eyelashes, across cheeks that are a decorated with a lovely hue of blue, down to the full and beautifully pink lips that are suddenly very, very close to yours. His chest is pressed against yours and you can feel his thirium pump working overtime, thrumming pleasantly from underneath his clothes into your own overheated, sweat-covered skin.

      You want to kiss him. God, you want to kiss him. He’s so close, all you’d have to do is lean up and then that  _ mouth _ that just finished giving you one of the best orgasms you’ve ever had would be on yours--you can imagine it, how soft and perfect his lips would feel. But then his hips push roughly, lacking all of the usual grace that Connor always carries himself with, and you’re screaming through another climax; it's more intense than the first, your eyes watering with the force of it. For a quick second his brown eyes flick down to your lips and you draw in a shuddering, anticipatory breath. 

      But then he’s standing, adjusting his tie back into its proper position, running his fingers up into his hair to put it back in its usual place. And just like that he’s back to his everyday self, prim and proper and looking nothing like he just did what he did to you. “I didn’t--my apologies, detective,” he says, his LED flickering yellow one last time before finally shifting back to a soft blue and remaining there. “I believe Lieutenant Anderson will be returning from the bar soon. I suggest a shower.” 

      He leaves you like that, a gasping, soaked mess on the counter of your boss and long-time friend, body still throbbing with shocks of pleasure and soreness. And, Jesus Christ, you’re so  _ fucked _ . You try to convince yourself that Connor was honestly just trying to help, trying to help relieve some of the tension you’ve created between yourself and Hank because you can’t control your own feelings, but then you remember what he looked like above you like that and you flush bright. 

      You wanted-- _ want _ \--to kiss him, to kiss Connor, to kiss an android. 

      You have no idea what it means, but you want it so bad it hurts. 

      You’re so fucked. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I think there's a flaw in my code”

       “Hank.”

       Connor freezes, and he’s not exactly sure why but if he had to explain it he thinks that the analogy of being doused with cold water would come close to what he’s currently feeling. 

       Not feeling--a short circuit. A fault in his system. 

       “Please.”

       Maybe he’s overheating; his thirium pump is running at an elevated pace, and his sweat glands are producing double the fluid they usually do in order to keep his hardware cool. He pulls his fingers from you, processes the choked noise you make and chooses to ignore it momentarily, keeps a close eye on all of his internal levels but nothing changes--he doesn’t cool down at all, even once he’s removed himself from the warmth of your body. Strangely, there are no warnings at all, no sensors flashing behind his eyes to inform him of the problem. 

       There must not be a problem then. The speedy analysis is enough to assure him that he can continue with his previous activity. He scans his eyes briefly over your back, heaving from the force of your breath, skin prickled with goosebumps; your hormones are skyrocketing, heart beating an unsteady, staccato rhythm in your chest.

       He drops to his knees, puts his mouth on you and uses his tongue the way he knows he’s supposed to (ignores the list of components that his mouth analyzes on you). He did his research, watched several hours of videos because it was the proper thing to do, because his current mission is to get you focused on the upcoming mission and not on Hank. But, why? Why does it matter to him whether or not you’re taken off the case?

       It doesn’t. Not to him anyway, but it would bother Hank. 

       Not that he cares how Hank feels--he simply needs his partner in the best condition possible in order to be most efficient. 

       His brows furrow slightly, because he doesn’t like this train of thought, because it’s almost too human in its vulnerability and he’s an android--and he’s  _ not  _ a deviant. He self-tests regularly, after all. He raises his hand, slides his fingers back into your warmth and twists them deliberately, purposefully, intent on shattering you. He can feel the tightening of your muscles beneath his hand where it rests on your leg, he can hear you gasping in an attempt to say something; he twists his head and sinks his teeth into the skin of your thigh--his thirium pump stutters at the sound of the noise that leaves your mouth. 

       He should stop.

       He knows this, knows that this moment, that your voice sounding the way it does, is creating a negative impact on the small part of his brain where deviancy occasionally tries to break him. He has pushed it back several times now (has failed to do so on the rare occasion--he can still remember the blue-haired Traci, the look of adoration on her face, the emotion in her tone).

       He’s going to stop; he’s going to stand up, carefully put himself back together, continue with his assigned tasks. 

       He’s going to.

       But then he swipes his tongue across that bundle of nerves, curls his fingertips up and--

       “Connor!” 

       It sounds exquisite. He hums against you, a sound that he never gave his body permission to make, and if that isn’t alarming enough then his next thought certainly is. He wants to hear it again. Red flashes behind his eyelids as he continues pressing his fingers into you, something deep in his chest rumbling pleasantly at how slick you’ve suddenly become. He knows he’s treading something dangerous, that he can’t possibly  _ want _ anything but--

       He rises to his feet, eyes catching every tiny movement, every little shiver your body makes, and then he bites your neck. He bites harder than he knows is necessary but he does it anyway, maybe bites a tiny bit harder when a little whimper bubbles from your lips. 

_        Dangerous--! _

_        Warning--! _

_        Overheating--! _

       He clutches onto the last threads of himself that he can find. “As lovely as my name sounds on your lips, detective, I believe that you crying it in this situation will not ease the tension between you and the lieutenant at all. In fact, I calculate an 87% chance that it will increase--”

       “Connor, shut the fuck up.”

       He snaps his mouth shut, draws in an unnecessary breath through his nose. He is well aware of the fact that humans have certain sounds that they find pleasing--music, for example. He had meant it when he told Hank that he would like to listen to music, like to understand what listening to music is like, but he knows that it’s impossible. Now that idea is falling apart around him because the sound of your voice, breathless and quaking, is  _ more _ than pleasing to his processors. He has no idea what will come out of his mouth if he tries to speak again (which is bad, very bad, he’s a highly intelligent model of android who can fluently speak all known languages and he should be able to compute with 100% certainty the proper thing to say in most situation but right now he’s  _ lost _ ), so instead he drags his tongue up the side of your throat so that he can feel the noises you're making right against his mouth. 

       He leans himself over you heavily, shuts his eyes and attempts to tune out the warring halves of his brain. Right now, his number one priority is to assure the quality of his work--to do that, he needs his partners to focus. Cyberlife would agree. Afterall, Connor cannot perform his work without the empathy of a human officer at his side to help him. He holds onto that idea tightly as he turns his mouth towards your ear. “Listen,” he commands--because it’s something he’s seen in videos that he can imagine Lieutenant Anderson doing. 

       His voice sounds foreign to his own ears. 

       He ignores it.

       “I--I can’t--Connor, oh fuck, I can’t--”

       He stops moving, pretends that he doesn’t feel his thirium pump hammering when you whine pathetically. “You can,” he encourages, and then it feels like his hand is moving of its own accord (it’s not, of course, he’s simply following what he watched in the videos, what he analyzed as the quickest way to bring you to an effective climax). “You will.” He slides his fingers into your mouth, bites his lip subconsciously at the way they so easily part around the digits, feels the vibration of your moan as he presses against the soft tissue of your tongue. 

       He can suddenly picture the images of foreplay that he studied, of women on their knees in front of male partners and he briefly wonders--

       He shoves that thought down before it can even start to take hold. He reasserts his focus back on you and returns to his earlier task, pushing his fingers into your heat slowly. “Do you hear it?” he asks, then he twists his wrist and shoves harder and watches as your back arches and your mouth parts around his fingers in a gasp and your hips buck. 

       The force of your movement is worrying so he presses his hips into you to hold you in place--he doesn’t think about the way it appears similar to sexual intercourse, because it’s not, because he just wants to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. “Would it be easier for you if I simulated Lieutenant Anderson’s voice, detective?” he asks; it would be so much easier for him, he can completely dissociate himself from the situation if you say yes.

       There’s a piece of him, no matter how small it’s still there, that wants you to say no. He rolls your tongue between his fingers--fidgety, a nervous, human gesture he picked up to appear more friendly.

       The breath that he doesn’t need catches in his throat when you shake your head, press your hips back more forcefully into his own. He doesn’t think, doesn’t analyze--he grabs you and forces you to roll over so that he can see your face, your flushed cheeks, your blown-wide pupils. His hands find your thighs and drag them to lock in place around his waist and he watches in awe as you moan and rut against him and say his name in that  _ voice _ again. 

       He feels the thirium in his artificial veins travel south so suddenly that it leaves him with a false sense of dizziness, something he was modeled with in order to prevent any major malfunctions from going unnoticed. Of their own accord, his hips push back against yours and he’s struck by the phantom sensation of--of  _ something _ \--he has no idea what it is but it’s good. “Detective,” he says in place of your name, because he fears saying it will only escalate the situation into even more dangerous territory. 

       His eyes track the motion of your tongue over your teeth and the idea of it being his tongue races through his mind. Kissing is normal in situations like this, right? His hands grip you tighter as a flurry of simulated (not real, it’s impossible, he’s not deviant) emotions bombard him and instead of trying to sort it out, instead of trying to reason with himself why he shouldn’t have you facing him--have you looking at his face--if he wants you to believe that he’s Hank, instead of trying to figure out what he knows he should be doing, he does what his body is telling him to do. He pulls you closer, pushes his hips against yours again and again and again, listens to the beautiful sound of your moans and his name rolling from your lips.

       He suppresses the sounds threatening to escape from him, not sure what they are, what they mean, why all of his sensors are shouting at him yes, yes,  _ yes _ as he continues thrusting his hips more forcefully against yours. He feels like he’s chasing something but he doesn’t know what. 

       But then he reaches down, fingers finding that bundle of nerves that drives you wild, and you’re screaming for him, all for him, and it’s  _ music _ . 

       His chest is heaving, thirium pump threatening to destroy itself with how fast its working. The warnings are flashing faster now, brighter, more urgent. 

_        Dangerous--! _

_        Warning--! _

_        Overheating imminent--! _

       He looks over your face, at your lips, one last time and then he stands; he puts his tie back in its place, pushes the hair out of his eyes. “I didn’t--my apologies, detective,” he says. He needs to cool down. He needs to fix this--whatever this is--before he really does become a deviant. “I believe Lieutenant Anderson will be returning from the bar soon. I suggest a shower.”

       He leaves the kitchen, leaves the house because he needs to be alone. He feels unstable, more than he did when he let Rupert go to save Hank, more than he did with the blue-haired Traci.

       He needs to make a report to Cyberlife.

       He can’t become deviant.

       He can’t let that happen.

 

       He won’t let that happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on "Gasoline" by Halsey.
> 
> Ask and ye shall receive, you thirsty fucks. 
> 
> (Honestly I'm blown away by the love this fic has gotten, thank you all so much for your support! I really hope I did Connor and your requests justice with this one! Much love <3 )
> 
> P.s. I'm not sure why but my brain kept flipping between first and third person while I was writing this. If anyone catches any she/her instead of you/your, let me know? I think I caught most of them but just in case!

**Author's Note:**

> Based on "Hallelujah" by Panic! at the Disco.
> 
> Y'all can rip sexually active pre-deviant Connor from my cold, dead hands. Honestly, the idea of him doing something like this to fulfill a purpose/mission was an idea I had that I couldn't get out of my mind. I hope you love this filth as much as I loved writing it. 
> 
> P.S. I've been playing around with the idea of writing this from Connor's perspective as another chapter but I'm not sure yet? We'll see!


End file.
